Things Go Hazy
by CorpseGrl
Summary: The case hinged on the suspect's use of a memory manipulating drug. But when an accident at the lab results in Molly getting an unusually high dose of the drug, what will happen to the relationship he has built with her over the years? Will life ever be the same for the detective, his blogger and their pathologist? - TW: sexual assault TW: implied violence TW: depression
1. what if i fall and hurt myself

**Prompt:** Molly has amnesia and doesn't remember Sherlock. He doesn't realize how much he counted on her unwavering love until it's not there anymore. As I have it planned out, I'm afraid it will be pretty angsty. And there will be several chapters (4-6) but with quick updating as I have the first few chapters ready to go already.

**Trigger Warning:** There are some very unpleasant issues addressed here at the beginning, including but not limited to **sexual assault****. **I do not go into any explicit details but I feel safer letting every reader know to proceed with caution. I don't want anyone to have any bad experiences as a result of my work. **If you feel the need to talk about ANYTHING please feel free to PM me.** Much love. -_ CG_

_**Disclaimer: **__The characters in the following are the property of the writers/producers of BBC's Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended._

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_-x-x-x- Chapter 1 - what if i fall and hurt myself -x-x-x-_

John reached for a cup and poured himself some of the tepid brew that passed for coffee in the staff lounge at the clinic. Why couldn't this machine keep a simple pot of coffee hot? Rubbing at the tense muscles in the back of his neck, he moved to join Sarah and one of the nurses at a wobbly round table. The ladies were already in the middle of a conversation so he sat in a hard plastic chair and tried to catch up.

"I told her I would file a report, but without any description of the creep, I doubt the police will be able to do anything."

"Did she want to speak with a counselor?"

"No. That was the really odd part. She was upset that it had happened, obviously, but not like any victim I've ever seen. And you know we see more than I'd like. More than anything she was confused about how it could have happened without her remembering anything."

"John," Sarah said, turning to him, "Maybe you can help. You deal with some odd things, working with Sherlock. Would he take a case that isn't murder?"

"Sure, well…it depends doesn't it. What kind of case is it?" He sipped at his cup and made a face. Cold.

"A patient came in earlier today for a pelvic exam. Said she was experiencing some odd tenderness and the like and just wanted to get checked out. All signs point to her having recently experienced a significant sexual assault. She's married so I asked her, as gently as possible of course, if her husband was violent or had any tendencies like that."

"That would be the most obvious explanation, unfortunate though it is," chimed in the nurse.

"Right," Sarah continued, "but her husband is in the military and has been overseas for better than four months. I had to tell her the only other explanation was rape. You know how sometimes the victim will just block it out, only to later fall apart when there was evidence in front of her? I expected the walls to come crashing down and to have her sobbing in front of me while I called a counselor."

"Sounds like a standard case to me, why would Sherlock be interested?" John asked.

"She didn't fall apart, didn't show any signs at all of remembering. I'm beginning to doubt what really happened. She just seems really confused like there are no memories at all, nothing for her to block out even. I want to send it to the police, but I'm not sure if there's anything to report. She couldn't even remember when it had happened."

"Well, Sherlock might be able to at least deduce the when and maybe the where from looking at her, you know how he is. But are you sure you want to expose a potential rape victim to Mr. Insensitivity?"

"I'll give her a call and explain everything, see if she will go meet him. Just don't leave her alone with him and make sure she gets out of there if he starts getting too…Sherlock."

John chuckled, "Yeah, I'll do my best."

_-x-x-x-_

The next day found Kara Walton sitting uncomfortably in the middle of a dark and frankly foreboding sitting room, staring at the odd assortment of things on the mantle in front of her.

"Is that a skull?"

"Yes. But that is irrelevant. John made it seem like this case would interest me so, dispense with the obvious and get to the point. Why are you here?"

Kara squirmed a bit under the detective's gaze and shot a worried glance over to Dr. Watson. John smiled at her and nodded his head to encourage her to begin. Clearing her throat a little, she spoke softly but clearly.

"I went to the clinic yesterday because I felt sore, you know, like something wasn't right. And I had some bruises that I couldn't remember getting. I wanted to make sure that I hadn't passed out or something and fallen."

"Do you have a history of blacking out, Mrs. Walton?" John asked, scrawling in his notebook.

"No. I just wanted to find out what had happened to get all these bruises. And then the doctor said she thought maybe I'd been raped. That just can't be right. I'd have remembered something like that. Wouldn't I? I just want answers. I need to know what to tell my husband when he gets home." Recounting her experience at the clinic left Kara flustered, but still she remained composed. Certainly unlike any rape victim John had ever encountered. Her entire attitude was one of bewilderment and confusion.

"You could tell him you want a divorce."

"What?!" Kara exclaimed.

"Sherlock!" John interjected simultaneously. Both he and Kara shot looks of anger at the detective who merely huffed and rose to pace in front of the woman.

"Really, John. She is a military wife – notorious for being unfaithful while their husbands are away. They get 'lonely'," he sneered throwing air quotes around the word indicating that this was another human emotion that did not apply to him. John would argue otherwise, knowing how his friend had reacted during a time neither of them spoke about. But he indulged the man his need to compartmentalize during casework. He settled for a pointed look and a scowl in Sherlock's direction.

"I swear to you I have not cheated on my husband," Kara interrupted their staring match.

"Will you at least look at her, Sherlock? Her bruises alone should speak for the fact that she's been through something and we'd like some information to give the police. A when and where if nothing else."

Sighing dramatically, he circled the woman. Then directed her to stand and extend her arms for him to examine the bruises. Looking closely at her wrists his eyes shifted and he stood directly in front of her, locking his eyes on hers.

"Answer my questions with only 'yes' or 'no' responses. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied obediently.

"Good. Is your name Kara Walton?"

"Yes."

"Do you live in London?"

"Yes."

"Do you play tennis?"

"No."

"Do you have a dog?"

"Yes. Three."

"Yes or no, only Mrs. Walton. Are you left-handed?"

"No."

"Did you cheat on your husband?"

"NO."

"Hmm. Very well, you may sit." Kara collapsed into the chair, blinking furiously as if she had just been released from a spell.

"Sherlock, what was that all about?" John hissed as he looked worriedly at the woman who was still trembling from her interrogation. "Can I get you a glass of water?" he asked her. She nodded and he went to the kitchen for a glass while Sherlock explained.

"I merely needed to know if she was telling the truth, so I administered a form of polygraph test. While answering the questions, I watched her breathing, eye dilation, and perspiration on her brow and upper lip. I compared her answers with what I already knew about her. The fact that she lives in London is the easiest, she visited your clinic, so she lives locally. She does not play tennis, but does swim extensively based on the condition of her hair, damaged by chlorine and the musculature of her upper arms. Both arms are roughly the same in tone but there are clear callouses on her right index and middle fingers where she holds her pen too tightly while writing, she is right-handed. She and her husband indeed have three dogs: a German shepherd, a golden retriever, and a Labrador mixed-breed judging from the hairs all over her clothing. Most likely they were all rescues. I can now agree that she did not cheat on her husband. Furthermore, I'm also certain she has been sexually assaulted."

"But I would have remembered!"

"Retrograde amnesia is a possibility, but I feel that something else may be at work here. Time to call the Met, John. See if there are any other mysterious rape reports. Chances are very good that this criminal has struck before or will strike again."

_-x-x-x-_

As Sherlock was so fond of saying, the game was on. Phoning the police resulted in four other cases of mysterious rape reports with the victims remembering nothing. They all simply woke one morning with bruises and couldn't provide even a rough description of the attacker. It took a couple of days, but Sherlock was able to track down a suspect using overlapping routines of the five women to narrow down the suspect's likely territory. Investigating abandoned buildings in the area, he finally happened upon a disgusting space that held promise.

Something squelched under his foot and he inhaled sharply, nearly gagging on the smell of an unwashed male body and weeks of accumulated filth, including it seemed human waste in a bucket in the corner. Sherlock's face wrinkled in disgust. He was accustomed to the sights and smells of vagrancy from his work with the homeless of London but if this was the base of their suspect, he was not surprised that the victims had deleted the memory. It was appalling. He would also be deleting all the fetid odors and images shortly after this case closed. Picking his way slowly through the mess he found what he was after.

Tucked behind a ratty sheet suspended behind some packing cartons, which he supposed might be the suspect's bed based on the heap of material stacked on top, was a shabby table and an amateur chemistry set-up. Beakers, tubing, and various stands were scattered along the top of the table with stacks of wrinkled papers covered with smudges of unidentifiable chemicals. Sherlock was fleetingly reminded him of his own equipment. He made a mental note to try and tidy up a bit when he got home, after a long hot shower to wash off the stench. Carefully, Sherlock shifted some papers around, although he doubted the suspect would be able to tell if anything had been disturbed. Still, he didn't want to raise an alarm before there was enough evidence to arrest him. The sound of a glass tube rolling across the surface of the table caught his attention and he grabbed for it at is fell over the edge, catching it just before it shattered on the concrete floor of the abandoned building.

His face was now centimeters from a small case containing several capped vials of a clear liquid. Eureka. This was the drug he was looking for amongst all this rubbish. Silently pocketing one for further study, he removed himself from the hovel, seeking the clean air outside. Sherlock would need a mass spectrometer to properly analyze and identify the components of the mystery substance, but he was certain there was plenty of evidence behind him to warrant an arrest. Determining the chemical composition of the mind altering drug in his possession would be a bonus. It was why he took this case after all. He quickly made for a main road to hail a cab, texting on his way. The details of the location to the DI in charge, rape investigations were not Dimmock nor Lestrade's division, and John to meet him at Barts to begin the analysis.

_-x-x-x-_

Sweeping through the doors, Sherlock called out to his pathologist. Well, she wasn't actually his, she was employed by the hospital, but Molly Hooper was among the few friends he had in this world and he trusted his work with her. He particularly liked that she was always so accommodating in the use of her equipment for his cases.

"Molly! I need to run a mass spec on this chemical." He reached into his pocket and displayed the mystery vial, twiddling it back and forth in his fingers. "I need to know what it is to prove he drugged the victims, thus wiping their memory of the event."

She smiled at him, "Oh, of course. Just set it here on the counter and I'll get it set up."

John spoke as he came bustling through the door on the heels of the detective, "How long is this going to take?"

"At least a couple of hours, sorry," Molly apologized.

"I've been at the clinic all morning and now I have to rush all the way over here to sit around waiting. I haven't eaten all day," he grumbled.

"Why don't you both pop up to the cafeteria for a bite and I'll get everything started."

"Thanks, Molly. I'm starving. Even hospital food sounds good. C'mon, Sherlock, you can keep me company and stay out of her way while she works."

Before he could protest, or pretend to be absorbed in microscope slides and petri dishes, John took hold of Sherlock's elbow and steered him out the door. Molly laughed quietly, knowing that would only be a few minutes before he was back. Sherlock didn't eat while on a case, but would become ravenous upon its conclusion. Since he was already here, he would want to pull out some of his ongoing experiments while they both waited for the spectroscopy results. Then there would be analysis and other investigations to perform, possibly even trying to replicate the concoction. She would draw the line at that. No mad science experiments today. Turning back to the bench Molly assembled all the necessary equipment and put on a fresh pair of gloves.

Opening the vial a pungent odor wafted up making Molly crinkle her nose. She blinked furiously and tried to keep her head as far as possible from the vapor. It was awful. Drawing out a sample with a pipette in her right hand, she tried to cap the vial with her left to contain the smell. Her fingers slipped, knocking the little glass container to the floor. It broke spilling the foul substance all over the tile. Hastily, Molly reached down trying to contain the mess. It was too late, however, as she was enveloped in the vapor. She gagged on the gas that now overwhelmed her senses. It was bitter, but briefly hinted of cedar and verbena. Then, dangerously, it tasted and smelled like blood. Gasping for fresh air, she reached for the emergency button on the wall by the door. A haze clouded her vision and she shook her head trying to focus. It didn't help. She only managed a couple of steps before the haze closed around her. Molly collapsed, completely unconscious.

True to form, Sherlock was on his way back to the lab not five minutes after John sat down with his questionable cafeteria food. He had placated his friend by pocketing a sandwich and insisting that he was going to take a cup of coffee back for Molly. Two cups in hand, he strolled down the sterile halls, anxious to get back to work. Confident the case was already closed, the arrest details had been messaged to him in the interim, he now wanted to satisfy his curiosity as to the chemical makeup of the drug. What could possibly be potent enough to keep the victims completely in the dark about their attacker? Imagine the criminal possibilities of a drug that could selectively manipulate memory. It would be a con-artist's dream.

Upon opening the door, Sherlock was momentarily confused by the lack of pathologist standing at her station. Then he caught a trace of the chemical in the air. Clearly Molly had spilled the drug, but why hadn't she sounded the alarm? His eyes darted around the room. Lying on the floor, just around the edge of the bench was Molly's purple gloved hand, stretched toward the door. Panic gripped him him as Sherlock took in the sight of her limp body sprawled out on the floor. The same feeling as when John had been grazed by a bullet during a past case. He pushed his scarf around his mouth and nose darting to her prone figure. Tugging on the collar of her lab coat, he pulled her to the doors. He slammed his elbow into the emergency button while scooping her up. Once in the cool air of the hallway, he leaned against a wall and slid to the floor cradling her crumpled form in his arms. Gently he brushed her hair away from her face, thankful she was still breathing. The sirens and lights cried for help which he hoped wasn't too late in coming. Sherlock could do nothing but wait and try to quiet the voice in his head telling him this was his fault.


	2. what if i went and lost myself

**Trigger Warning: rape/sexual assault, implied violence. **Again, If you feel the need to talk about ANYTHING please feel free to PM me. I'm willing to listen if you need me. I know how important that is._  
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**Errata:** There is a lot of angst here. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. - _CG_

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_-x-x-x- Chapter 2 - what if i went and lost myself -x-x-x-_

John sat in the chair by Molly's bedside watching Sherlock pace. He hadn't seen the detective this unsettled by anything since his return. The man was possessed.

"Sit down or leave. This nervous pacing is not helping her or me," John tried to be firm but his heart wasn't in it. Of course he felt bad for Sherlock and understood his frustration. There was no denying that something had happened between the two during the Fall and even now, years after, their relationship was different. She had kept his secret and he treated her with something akin to the respect he had for Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had feelings to be sure, and some of them carried over to Molly.

"It's my fault. I shouldn't have left her alone. Shouldn't have let her open that vial. Of course, she was clumsy enough to spill the entire contents all over herself. There is no way of knowing what such a dosage will do to her memory," Sherlock rambled, as much to himself as to John.

"It is _not_ your fault," John reassured. "You couldn't have known how volatile it was going to be. Your being there would only have left two unconscious people. The doctors can't tell if there is any permanent damage, but for now she seems fine. We just have to wait for her to wake up."

But patience was certainly not one of Sherlock Holmes' few virtues. He preferred action and getting results. Hours passed of waiting. Eventually John left for home, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. There must be a way to get Molly back, to wake her up, to know what she would remember when she did. As the darkness of night settled over the city outside, Sherlock settled into the shabby visitor's chair and steepled his fingers. There wasn't anything left of the sample he'd acquired from the scene so he couldn't go down to the lab and perform the analysis now. Not to mention, his access to said laboratory and its machines was currently still in a deep sleep in a hospital bed in front of him. Because of him.

The thought of how long she would be like this pained him. He was fearful of what effect the drug would have on her memory. It was a completely unknown concoction. Would she forget who she was? Would she remember her years of schooling? What if she couldn't work at Barts anymore because she didn't remember any of her training? No, the rape victims all remembered who they were before the attacks. The only thing they forgot were the attacks themselves. If there had been no significant trauma in Molly's life to erase, maybe she wouldn't forget anything. There were too many unknowns, too many unanswered questions. He exhaled in frustration and ran his fingers angrily through his hair. OH -His head snapped up as a thought coalesced. _This is a_ _case_. The suspect was in custody at the Yard. The man who created the drug might have some of the answers needed to wake Molly. Sherlock stormed out of the room and into the night. Regardless of the rule of law, he was going to interrogate the serial rapist who created such a powerful drug and demand the antidote.

Now alone in the quiet dark of her hospital room, Molly stirred but did not wake. If anyone had been around to see, they would have observed frantic movement of her eyes beneath eyelids squeezed tightly shut. She was having the most terrible nightmares. Memories and images flickered across her mind, all focusing around a very potent combination of smells. Scent is the strongest link to memory and the drug focused on the most visceral scents attached to the strongest physical and emotional traumas in Molly's memory. They were dredged to the forefront of her mind and she relived them all. Gradually her mind was filled to bursting, forcing her brain to effectively delete all the pain with all the corresponding smells, sights, sounds, tastes and touches. It was a purge of her system. Eliminating everything that Molly had ever associated with the smells of that chemical haze - cedar, verbena, and blood.

_-x-x-x-_

Looking down at the battered skin on the back of his hands, Sherlock let out a ragged breath. Angry red bruises spread over a third of the skin and his knuckles had cracked. There was a gash running parallel to the metacarpals of his thumb and forefinger on his left hand. It had bled significantly but not enough to warrant stitches. Deep black lines of broken blood vessels were reaching down into his wrists. This would take several days to heal and his mobility would be limited for a while. John was going to shout at him. But this was not the worst injury he had ever sustained. Both men also knew Sherlock was capable of a inflicting a great deal more pain on his targets as well, but that time was in the past. They didn't speak of it unless it was absolutely necessary. Now would not be the time to go down that road.

Smiling darkly, he thought to himself that one actually had to work for the police to be charged with police brutality. This was assault at worst. The incident was going to set back his work with the Yard for several weeks, but shouldn't be enough to release the cretin back onto the streets. He had been enraged by the man's inability to answer any questions regarding the drug's composition beyond the chemicals he had used to make it. The idiot had apparently done a bit of experimentation using standard rape drugs but with no accurate notation of any kind. It had all been trial and error. The five known victims were not the only ones, there had been three others before the drug had been perfected. There was also no sign that Kara Walton or the others would remember anything even after intense therapy into repressed memory. Rifling through the confiscated materials in evidence, it did not appear that anyone knew how this drug worked or if there was a way to reverse the process.

What he had learned was that the dose Molly had received was approximately five times the dose used by the rapist on his other victims. His typical method of administration had been to dampen a cloth and clamp it over their nose and mouth, much like the standard use of chloroform. Initially he had used it simply to knock out his victims. He was unaware of the effect the drug had on memory until he accidentally encountered his fourth victim on the street. She showed no signs of recognizing him at all, so he followed her. After being certain that she wasn't even aware she had been raped he had been elated. He could continue virtually undetected. If Sherlock hadn't gotten involved, this man would still be out there preying on young women. The thought disgusted everyone so it didn't take much for Sherlock to persuade the yarders to allow further analysis on the drug. They wanted to know the likelihood that other criminals would have the same tool. Not just sexual predators, but thieves and con-artists would also greatly benefit from a memory erasing drug. For that they were willing to do what they could to reduce the fallout from his outburst.

It galled him that he had reacted so violently to the simpering idiot during his interrogation. Perhaps he was becoming too emotionally invested in this case. Of course he was, Molly was lying in hospital because of him. It was worse than when Mrs. Hudson was roughed up by Americans or John's various injuries during casework. Molly was supposed to be safe from all of that in the lab. Pummeling the suspect during interrogation had been driven by his pent up frustration at his inability to protect her. Again.

_-x-x-x-_

So Sherlock set to work at Baker Street, using his extensive knowledge of chemistry to attempt reverse engineering the drug and possibly construct an antidote. The project gave his mind something to focus on while they still waited for Molly to wake up. She got five times the dosage so she would have five times the reaction. If her symptoms followed the same pattern as the other victims, she would be asleep for another three days at least. Not knowing what memories she would have lost upon waking also motivated Sherlock to continue. John tried his best to assist, wanting to find the cure as fiercely as his friend. But John also worried about what might happen to the detective if they were unsuccessful and Molly was permanently changed by this event. The guilt could possibly drive Sherlock mad.

John was even more concerned when, three days later, Sherlock was no closer to a cure and the frustration had turned the man entirely in on himself. He sat staring at the fireplace for hours, refusing food or drink. Neither the nicotine nor the violin had helped him think. Nothing in all of London could soothe his concern about what they would find when Molly woke up. Would she still be his Molly? What would he do if she was someone else? Sherlock realized he was preparing himself for something akin to her death and he had no idea how to do that. He had never grieved over anyone before. John had tried to keep his spirits up, but the doctor was equally concerned and showed his feelings much more clearly. Although John spoke gently, saying all the right phrases, they both were preparing for the worst. Apprehension was apparent in John's eyes and only served to increase the churning in Sherlock's gut.

Each man dressed quietly that afternoon in preparation to visit Molly at the hospital. It was the day that Molly should wake. John was unpleasantly reminded of the mechanical motions he had taken while preparing to attend Sherlock's funeral. Every move was careful and precise, as if he could bury his emotions in routine. He pointedly ignored the dull ache in his shoulder and the wince as he stepped forward with his right leg. As before, the pain in his soul was radiating to the rest of his body. It would break Sherlock if he took the cane and he steadfastly refused to do that. For the millionth time this week he hoped that Molly would be alright. For all of their sakes, but especially for Sherlock's.

Sherlock had resigned himself to the fact that he could not create an antidote. The inability to solve the puzzle coupled with the overwhelming guilt turned his mind into a roiling sea of self-loathing. He admitted there was also fear of the unknown, he needed to know how badly she was affected. Maybe once he had that he could find the solution. Perhaps that was the last bit of the puzzle. He clung to that hope. Sherlock dressed as if he was preparing for his own death again. Methodically, he selected his best and blackest suit. Then a gleaming white shirt. White was traditionally a color of hope, not mourning. The leather of his shoes creaked slightly as he tightened the laces. With a long appraisal in the mirror of his room, he smoothed creases that did not exist. Sherlock finally exited and met John in the main room. The only sounds were made by their shoes on the stairs as they descended. Sherlock tightened his scarf, trying to chase off a chill that came from his chest more than the wind.

Sitting in silence was making John more nervous and he felt the need to reassure Sherlock. He didn't know what to say but if therapy had taught him anything it all, it was that silence could kill.

"Just remember, Sherlock. None of this was your fault. It was an accident."

"Please do not speak, John," Sherlock spoke flatly. He continued to stare out the cab window.

"I'm serious!"

"You're wrong."

"No. You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. This was an accident." John was growing angry with him. Why couldn't the tosser just accept that he had feelings? What was so wrong with being human? Hadn't his humanity saved them all once?

"That is not what is troubling me. Please, just be quiet." Sherlock's voice was low and still held no trace of emotion.

"Like hell! I will not have you closing up on me again. You need to realize that no matter how much you want to blame yourself, it won't bring Molly back!"

"Don't talk about her like that," Sherlock growled. "We don't even know how she is yet, so please. For me. Please...don't."

Sherlock's voice grew quiet and he finally turned to face his friend. John drew in a sharp breath when he realized how scared Sherlock looked. But it wasn't the same fear from Baskerville, or from Moriarty. There was a pain there. Sherlock really cared deeply about this woman and was scared of losing her. He wasn't silent from misplaced guilt, he was imagining a life without her and it terrified him more than he was willing to admit. John recognized that the man before him was struggling.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" he began and then decided, maybe words were useless after all. He set his jaw firmly and gave Sherlock a tight nod before turning back to stare forward. Quietly John reached down and tightly gripped Sherlock's hand. He was more than his best friend, he was a brother, and John wouldn't let him face this storm alone.

_-x-x-x-_

Bright florescent lighting washed out Molly's face as she lay in front of them. She was still asleep but there had been reassuring signs. Her brain activity had been increasing and there was some response to stimuli on her fingers and toes. It would only be a matter of time. Sherlock leaned in the far corner, staring at nothing, lost in his own thoughts. John took the chair by the bed and reached out to hold her hand, gently running his thumb across her knuckles.

Less than an hour after they arrived, as if she knew they were there, Molly's eyes fluttered open and she gave a small gasp. Both men were instantly alert as she blinked. She turned her head, trying to get her bearings and caught sight of John by her shoulder.

"Dr. Watson," she rasped. Days of not speaking had left her hoarse.

"Hey, sleepy head, how are you feeling?" John asked. He held a straw to her mouth for her to get a sip. She gratefully accepted and moved to sit up a little in the bed.

"Pretty good, still fuzzy on the edges."

"Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?"

"I'm in the hospital. I remember everything getting hazy and then I fell. I must have hit my head because I don't remember anything else. How long have I been out?"

"Several days."

"Oh no! The lab and morgue have probably gone mad without me."

The mention of her job fanned the hope in Sherlock's chest into flame. Everything would be just fine after all. It would all go back to normal because Molly was back, she was alright. He stepped over and gently touched her shoulder. Until now he had hovered just out of her peripheral vision, his eyes ticking over her body looking for injuries and his hearing trying to identify anything unusual in her voice. She really did seem to be unscathed. She was his Molly again.

"I should have warned you about the drug, Molly. I am very sorry," Sherlock said, drawing her attention. He leaned in to place a kiss on her cheek but she pulled away from him, trying to refocus on his face.

"I'm sorry, who are you? And why are you trying to kiss me?" Molly asked confused.

Molly turned back to John whose mouth now hung open in shock. He never would have anticipated this. Even he could tell the confusion was genuine, she was not teasing the detective. Molly really didn't know who he was. John didn't know what to tell her. How could anyone possibly forget Sherlock Holmes? Especially anyone who had known him, and loved him like Molly Hooper did.

In turning away, she completely missed Sherlock's usually passive mask falling away to expose a stricken, heartbroken man underneath. He staggered back from her bedside. The hope he had felt moments ago turned to stone and he struggled for air. Sherlock fled from her room and into the streets outside. He was trying to run from that look on her face. The vacancy in her eyes. Molly Hooper was back, but she was no longer his.

* * *

**PS:** Let the gnashing of teeth and general lashing of the author commence. I will admit, I saw where this was going - it made me cringe and my stomach ache - but I couldn't stop. So please, let me know what you think. Good and bad. - CG


	3. you don't know this now

**Author's Note:** There are no trigger warnings this chapter. If you would like, I suggest listening to the song "_Hazy_" by Rosi Golan and William Fitzsimmons and the song "_Ashes and Wine_" by A Fine Frenzy. They were the soundtrack for this chapter. All chapter headings as well as the title for this fic come from "_Hazy_" as it is my overarching theme. Hang in there everybody, here we go. - _CG  
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_-x-x-x- Chapter Three - you don't know this now -x-x-x-_

"Who _was_ that?" Molly asked. The confusion and almost panic on her face was enough to force John to stay by her bedside instead of rushing off after his friend. He had a gut feeling that this was certainly a danger night of epic proportions. But he also knew he couldn't just leave Molly with unanswered questions.

"_That_ was Sherlock Holmes. You really don't remember him? Nothing?"

Molly shook her head. "Doesn't sound familiar. I would remember a name like that I think. I come across a lot of names, you know, doing my job. And I like to note the funny ones, oh that's terrible-" her eyes widened, hoping she hadn't offended the kind doctor, "but, you do what you can to not make it all so dreadful all the time, yeah. But, no, I would have remembered and I don't think I've ever heard the name_ Sherlock_. Are you sure it's a real name?"

"Yes, I've seen the death certificate," John replied and then waved his hand to brush that statement away when he realized that only made Molly's confusion and panic worse. "Nevermind."

"Should I know him? He seemed like he knew me pretty well. He tried to _kiss_ me. Why did he do that?"

"He did try to kiss you didn't he. I've only seen that once before when he apologized to you at the Christmas party."

"So we're friends?"

"Well, he wouldn't say friend. He claims he doesn't have friends."

"Dr. Watson, please, this is too confusing. I bumped my head, spent several days in this terrible bed, and aside from one strange man, everything seems normal. I want to go home to Toby, take a hot shower and then find out how behind I am on postmortems. There will also be an awful mess to clean up in the lab after everything with the accident."

"Wait, you remember my name and who I am, but _not_ Sherlock?"

She sighed, "Yes. You are Dr. Mike Stamford's friend from back in the day. You come around sometimes, I assume to see him. He went to your stag do and I had to cover for him the day after, you seem like real mates. But I still don't know a thing about any Sherlock Hanes."

"Holmes," John corrected.

"See, I can't even remember his name. I don't know him. Can you please let someone know I want to go home? I think I'm fine."

He nodded absently. It was just surreal how she dismissed Sherlock like that. She once blushed and stammered at the mention of him, let alone his presence. The girl appeared to practically worship him at one point. Had brought a gift to every Christmas party since John had known her addressed to "Dearest Sherlock." After Moriarty things had been different. She didn't stammer so much anymore, but she did ramble on about the consulting detective. That had been an anchor for John, her unwavering devotion and loyalty to Sherlock, denying any new tabloid report. It had lifted his spirits during the dark times. Confirmed to him it hadn't all been a lie. At least one other person in the world knew Sherlock like John had. She had known of course, that Sherlock wasn't dead, however that didn't change the support she had been as John struggled. He had forgiven her almost instantly when he learned all the circumstances. She had done it out of loyalty and affection for Sherlock. It was possible she even truly loved him. But now, God, what now? This was a whole new woman in front of him.

"Yeah, alright. I'll go let the doctors know you're awake. I'll come around tomorrow to the lab, make sure you're okay."

"Thanks Dr. Watson. But don't feel like you need to check up on me, I'm nobody special really. Ta." She smiled at him as he patted her hand but it wasn't the same. She was friendly, but without Sherlock binding them together, their history was altered. He missed it sharply. If the change in her was affecting him like this, even with her knowing him a little, John could only wonder what it was doing to Sherlock. After notifying the nearest nurse that Molly was awake, he hurried to Baker Street.

_-x-x-x-_

Molly had erased him from her memory as he had erased so many useless details over the years. It was a shock to his system to be sure. But why? It didn't make sense. Of course he trusted her, he wouldn't be where he was without her. He had become emotionally attached to so few people in his life. And all of them had been unintentional - well, not John, he had chosen him as a flatmate after all. Becoming his friend though had not really been part of the plan. Still, that didn't explain Molly and why it hurt so badly that she didn't know him anymore. She would still be the same brilliant pathologist and he could still use her to get things done at Barts. It would be like a clean start, perhaps without all the blushing and awkward coffees. Yet that thought made him feel hollow. Molly was more than that to him. She saw through him once, probably often, and hadn't ever been fooled by his disguises. It was like she had an innate ability to see him, even when he didn't want to be seen. She wouldn't do that now. Working with her in the lab she sometimes sensed what he wanted done before he asked, like an extension of his own mind. They were linked. Well, had been. Sherlock despised the feeling of loss that clawed at the edges of his mind whenever he had to connect Molly Hooper and himself using the past tense. He needed a cigarette, the patches weren't enough.

Smelling the smoke as soon as he entered the hallway, John cursed loudly and stormed up the steps. He hoped smoking was the worst of it and pushed open the door to Sherlock's rooms. The look he gave his friend was a mix of disappointment, pity, concern, and understanding. It was hardly a look that Sherlock would be able to deduce so the detective just assumed it was a look of disapproval for the cigarette between his long pale fingers.

"I needed something. Could have been worse," Sherlock drawled, raising an eyebrow and giving John a meaningful look while taking a final drag and extinguishing the cigarette in a makeshift ashtray. John swallowed the disapproval and some of the concern, glad that at least Sherlock was avoiding the more dangerous substances. For now.

"I would say just the one but you clearly have already had several judging from the smell alone."

"Very good, John. I believe you may be the only person to ever have read my work on tobacco ash. Would you care to take a sample and tell me exactly what variety I'm imbibing?" Sherlock was masking his pain in snide comments as he proffered the saucer of cigarette ash at John.

"Shut up," John snapped, falling heavily into his chair across from Sherlock. "You are clearly upset by all this. Snarling at me is pointless. She's not forgotten everything, it could have been much worse."

Sherlock let a humourless laugh escape as that damnable flicker of hope in his soul came back to life. Was it possible that he could still fix this? He needed to know what John had learned. Needed to know the extent of the damage. "What did she say?"

John scrubbed his brow with his hand as he tried to think of how best to describe his talk with Molly.

"She remembered me, but in a completely reconstructed way. Knows me only as a friend of Stamford's. Remembered the accident at the lab as a fall caused by a chemical, but no mention of why she was testing that chemical. Assumed that's what caused her to be out for a few days. Did ask about work, so she knows she's a pathologist at Barts. Worried about the mess that the lab and morgue will be in with her being gone for a few days. She always has worked too hard, cleaning up everyone's messes. Also worried about Toby, so knows her own history. I think she's completely fine. Well, except for not knowing you. Didn't even recognize your name. Even went to far as to ask if it was a real name." John gave a weak smile but got no response from Sherlock whose eyes were closed absorbing everything. John continued. "I'll admit it was a bit spooky how she didn't want to talk about you. That's all she and I talked about together for the longest time. It stunned me a bit that she didn't remember any of those talks, nothing from...well, you know."

"It is odd isn't it," Sherlock finally added, eyes still closed. "Like everything has been reversed. While I was dead to the world, I was alive to Molly. Now I'm alive to everyone except the one who counts."

"What's that? '_The one who counts._' Since when is she that?" John sensed that this was a very important confession from Sherlock of what had happened between him and Molly from the lost years. John had never asked, never wanted to know much about that time. It was easier to just treat it like his time in Afghanistan. It had happened, it was painful, it didn't need to be brought up again. But now, if this was something that could help his friends, both of them, he was willing to face it.

"Something she said the night I...-" Sherlock trailed off, looking to John before continuing. There were good reasons neither of them spoke about this.

"Out with it," John insisted.

"She saw me, John. Saw that I looked sad. I had figured out a good portion of Moriarty's final problem. Knew what was about to happen to me, and to you, at least in part. Feelings weren't, aren't, my area so I was masking them. But Molly saw anyway. 'I know what that means, looking sad when you think nobody can see,' she said. I told her that she could see me. She answered, 'I don't count.' Like she thought it was the most obvious thing in the world." Sherlock paused, lost in the memory. He hadn't revisited that night in so long. It struck him that he was now the only one that knew the details of that night. It only existed in his mind. If he'd erased it, like he had been tempted on his more melancholy nights alone, nights when he wanted to forget what he had done to his friends, it wouldn't exist at all. The pain of that realization was intense, like a knife cutting into his ribs. He carried a physical scar as proof that he knew exactly what that sensation was like. Inhaling sharply with the pain, he continued, "I never realized until then that was exactly how I made her feel. How everyone always made her feel. When I went to her, to ask for her help, I told her how wrong she was. That she did count and that I had always trusted her. I needed her to help me and knew that she needed to hear that from me."

"I never knew," John murmured.

"No. It wasn't something I wanted to share. I'm not entirely sure why I'm telling you now. Sentiment only serves to cloud my better judgement. When I returned I didn't bring it up. I have tried to treat her better but it's easier to just bypass that whole part of our history, as I do with you. Like I do with the drugs, although Molly knows, knew, some of that history as well."

"Sherlock," John leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, "Molly Hooper is quite possibly the most important woman in your life. You are certainly one of the most important in hers. What are we going to do to fix this?"

"I don't know, John. I don't know."

_-x-x-x-_

The next day, just before he stepped into Barts to see Molly, John received a text from Sherlock.

_Don't breathe a word about me to her. - SH_

Regardless of all John's protestations and scolding, Sherlock refused to go with him to see her. He was justifying it under the excuse that it could cause a relapse, which John supposed could be possible. Although that hadn't been the case with any of the rape victims exposed to the drug, Molly had gotten a much higher dose. John supposed he would go along with it for now, let Sherlock work on the puzzle and sort out his own feelings.

_Fine. But we owe it to her to try and fix this. - JW_

_I know. Just not yet. - SH_

He shook his head, slipped his phone in his pocket and headed down the halls to the morgue and lab. After a quick stop by Stamford's office to ask him to also keep quiet about Sherlock, John went into the lab to find Molly. There she stood, cheerful as ever, setting up a series of tests and humming to herself. John was struck at how normal it all was, like nothing was wrong with her. She even seemed happier than he had ever seen her.

"How are you doing, Molly?"

"Dr. Watson, hello," she said brightly, "I'm fine. Really, you didn't need to come check up on me."

"You know you can call me John. In fact, I insist on it. I'm not a superior, don't even work here," he said smiling at her.

"If you insist," she laughed. "Is there anything I can help you with? I was expecting there to be a lot more to do today, catching up and all, but I seem to have flown through everything. I feel better than I have in years, like a weight has lifted, isn't that weird? Maybe I should get knocked unconscious more often."

"I'm not sure I'd advise that, but I am glad you're doing alright. You'll let me know if there are any symptoms that come up. Whatever that chemical was that made you black out might cause some other reactions."

"I wouldn't want to bother you, Dr. Watson - John," she said, ducking her head. "I'm sure I'll be fine. But thank you for checking up on me, you really shouldn't have worried."

"Alright, well, have a great day, Molly."

"Thanks, John, you too."

With that, he left the lab still wondering at how bright and light Molly seemed. Was it possible that her life was now better without the burden of Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock had an abrasive personality and on more than one occasion John had thought his life would be easier without the man-child in it. But, then he remembered all the great times they had and how hard life had been without him after having known him. John wouldn't trade his friendship with Sherlock for anything. But would Molly, if given the choice?

Back behind him in the morgue, Molly set to work on her first postmortem of the day. The scalpel in her hands became an extension of her own fingers as she worked over the body. It didn't seem like she had forgotten a thing. Didn't even have a nagging feeling that she'd left the burner on at home. Surely they were all exaggerating the effects of the drug. She knew it was supposed to be some sort of mind altering thing from a rape case. Molly still wasn't sure why she had been testing it instead of the forensic techs at the Yard. She felt wonderful. And then a faint smell drifted up from in front of her. The smell of blood. Well, of course there would be blood, she was cutting into a body after all. There was also going to be the smell of stomach acid later as she did the contents. But for the first time all day she felt uneasy, like something was wrong. Blood had never bothered her before. Odd. She pushed past it and finished her work. It was silly to let it slow her down.

Later that night, as she sat on her sofa curled up with Toby and a glass of wine, she thought of it again. The color was exactly the same as blood and she tried to pin down why the smell would have made her sad. Briefly, Molly thought about texting John to let him know but changed her mind. Lots of people were uneasy with the sight of blood, it wasn't really unusual that the smell might affect a person too. Although, she didn't remember that ever happening before. Maybe she was just still overtired from her ordeal. A good night's rest would help and everything would be fine again. Molly swirled the last of the wine around, watching it cling to the sides before she drained the glass and readied for bed.

_-x-x-x-_

"She was fine, by the way. Even though you didn't ask," John finally snapped. He'd been sitting on the sofa at 221B for an hour. Having finished his shift at the clinic, he stopped by to fill Sherlock in but the man seemed loathe to put down his violin. The baleful tune he was playing was a perfect indication of his sour mood. John had had enough and stood, preparing to go to his own flat and his wife but not before giving Sherlock a piece of his mind.

"I knew she would be," Sherlock answered, finally bringing his instrument to a rest. "I tried to tell you before you went. That's why I won't be going to see her."

"Sherlock, you can't just ignore her. We have to fix this, get her memories back."

"Actually, I thought it over. I don't think that's what we should do at all."

"What do you mean?" John sat back down.

"How was she John, honestly. In your own words how would you describe her?" He moved to take a seat in his chair, still holding his violin bow but staring blankly into the kitchen.

"She was Molly. Happy, cheerful, kind as ever. I don't think I've ever seen her more chipper actually, like she was walking on air. She did keep calling me 'Dr. Watson' instead of John, that felt odd, coming from her. But, yeah, she seemed great."

"Precisely. Think about it, the greatest burden in her life is gone."

"Sherlock," warned the doctor.

"You and I both know I'm not easy to live with or work with. I'm cold, manipulative, and can't be bothered to care. I know that, I've worked at it. And of all the people who have been burned by me, Molly has gotten the worst of it. I've used her and frankly, abused our relationship. Don't bother denying it. The Christmas incident is just one example. Asking her to lie to you, and everyone we know, is another even bigger burden I selfishly asked her to carry."

"What are you saying, that we just let her go on pretending she doesn't know you?"

"It's not pretending. The memories are gone, just like the rape victims. They all forgot the most violent trauma in their history. Obviously, I was the most emotionally scarring part of Molly's past, worse even than her own father's death. She's better off without having ever known me. You said it yourself, she's more cheerful than you've ever seen," Sherlock spoke as if he was delivering one of his deductions. Laying everything out as fact, without any indication it bothered him or that it should surprise John to see it.

"This is absolute bollocks, mate. You're being a coward, looking for the easy way out."

At this Sherlock's voice took on a stony edge. "Do not think for one minute that this is easy for me." He turned an icy glare on the doctor. "Do not think that I don't feel pain at having lost her. I care for her deeply whether you think I'm capable of it or not. During the darkest times of my exile, when it would have been far easier to go back to drugs and really die, anonymously in another country, it was knowing that she was waiting for me, worrying about me. That's what brought me home, John. I knew you would be mourning me and moving on. But Molly couldn't, not knowing that I wasn't really dead. So do not dare to say this is easy. I have the ability here to take all the pain back, every slight, every cutting word, every painful secret, all the worry and fear. I can take it all on in her stead. _Isn't that kinder_." His voice was so low and so dark, John couldn't suppress a shudder. He couldn't believe what he had heard.

"What if she doesn't want to forget you?"

"It's too late," he sighed, turning away again. "She already has. All I can do now is let her live her life in peace. Without me she has a chance to be truly happy. Molly deserves happiness, doesn't she?" Pain and grief played openly on the detective's face and John's breath caught at the sight of it. He'd never seen the man so vulnerable, so broken.

"Yeah, she does, mate." John sat quietly for a few minutes more while he contemplated everything that Sherlock was proposing. He hated to admit it, but he'd had similar thoughts when he left the lab today. He looked up at Sherlock, sitting perfectly still in the growing dusk. The man he admired most in the world was making another great sacrifice, this time entirely on his own terms. "It is the kindest thing, the most selfless thing. And I'm so sorry. So very sorry."

Sherlock didn't answer. The bow fell from his hands to the floor and he buried his face in his palms. John sat with a breaking heart as he listened to the sobs wracking Sherlock's body, mourning a woman who would never know who he was and how much he loved her.

* * *

**PS:** This was the chapter I had in mind when I first started the story, everything is designed around the scene at the end here. It's the saddest thing I've ever written and I'm really worried I'll have no readers by the time this is over. I do promise I have a few more chapters planned, so I hope you don't hate me enough to leave. Feel free to send me all the angry thoughts, though, I deserve them for putting our lovely characters through all this. Apologies and love, _CG_


	4. and it's more than i can bear

**Author's Note:** Again, there are no trigger warnings this chapter - the initial case is solved and we're in character development territory. I'm not entirely confident in this chapter tbh, but I think it covers ground nicely. I hope you're all still somewhat enjoying this journey. - _CG_

* * *

_-x-x-x-Chapter Four - and it's more than i can bear -x-x-x-_

After his breakdown, Sherlock had asked John to leave, to which the doctor obliged. The next morning, Sherlock's typical persona was back and he refused to share anything more with John aside from the steps that needed to be taken to safeguard Molly from ever being bothered by Sherlock again. If Molly couldn't know about Sherlock, there really wouldn't be much cause for John to see her again, not often anyway. The same would be true for the rest of their tight knit group of friends. Molly was a friend because of Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson and Mary had both become friends with Molly over the mourning years and it was going to hurt that they couldn't mention any of that now. And Lestrade would have to be careful about sharing Sherlock-related cases with her at the morgue. John was still not fully convinced that this was the best course of action, putting everyone through the loss of another friend.

Of course, John wouldn't delude himself, the pain Sherlock was going through was definitely worse. They could all still see Molly, interact with her, she would remember them in some small way, whereas Sherlock couldn't. John also didn't want to make things worse for his friend by sharing the nagging suspicion that this would definitely not be what Molly wanted. She would rather face a lifetime of unrequited love than never see Sherlock again. John knew it, and was pretty sure Sherlock did as well. He just wasn't willing to admit it, too lost in guilt and grief to see any other solution. The man was on a mission and John could only go along for the ride.

That was how John found himself, once again, walking the basement corridor toward the morgue. Molly was busy working, dictating her findings on her current subject. It created the perfect opportunity for him to perform his assignment. Slipping on down the hall to the staff locker room he approached Molly's. Sherlock had told him her locker number and combination, of course Sherlock would have the information. John briefly wondered how much he had stored about the pathologist. He could possibly reconstruct their whole history if he wanted to - or create an entirely new one learning from his past mistakes. John resolved to bring that up with him later. Right now he was to find her mobile and erase Sherlock's number and any text message history. Molly being as sentimental as she was would have kept them, regardless of the subject matter, just because they were from him.

John had worried that she might have already noticed them. Wouldn't she realize her phone had been tampered with when they were gone? Sherlock reassured him saying that if she had happened upon them by now she would have sent some sort of inquiry asking for an explanation, combining that information with the almost kiss upon her awakening. Since she hadn't, it was safe to assume she hadn't bothered to go through her contacts in the past 48 hours. Also, she must have brushed past the almost kiss, to both of their disappointment. John found her mobile right where Sherlock said it would be. Unfortunately, it was passcode protected. He had no idea what the code was. Using his own phone, he sent a text to Sherlock.

_Found her mobile but it's locked. Now what genius?_

_1979_

John entered the code hoping he wouldn't get caught. This situation was delicate enough without her showing up catching him prying into her belongings. The vibration in his hand made John almost drop the thing as if it had shocked him. 'Wrong Passcode - try again' the screen flashed in red.

_Didn't work. Hurry up, don't have much time._

_Not her birth year. Try father's death date 5-7-06_

'Wrong Passcode - try again' John swore under his breath.

_Wrong again_

_Clever girl, will have to think_

There was the sound of a door opening behind him and John knew he was about to be caught red-handed._ Out of time!_ - he shot off to Sherlock before jamming his mobile into his pocket and trying to think of a bluff. Of all the messes, the detective had gotten him in, this was near the top of the list.

"Dr. Watson - John, I mean - what're you doing here?" Molly asked, coming over to stand near him. She was trading her white coat for her jacket before heading out to lunch.

"Um...Molly...Hi, I was...just going to leave you a message. Didn't want to bother you," John stuttered, lying through his teeth, relieved she didn't ask why her locker was already open. "Your phone rang and I went to answer it for you...say you were on your way...lunch break, yeah?...But didn't know the code. Sorry, I know it's rude…" He trailed off, frantically running his hand over his face and pushing her mobile into her hands.

She giggled, "It's fine. You didn't happen to take a guess at the code did you?"

John's face flushed. She had seen through the lie, just like Sherlock would have. John felt foolish for even trying. These two really were perfect for each other. He ducked his head.

"Yes, but I got it wrong. I swear I didn't see a thing. Really sorry, Molly."

"Shoot. I was sort of hoping you cracked it. I haven't been able to remember the code. It's the only bit of thing I've forgotten in the whole mind scramble incident." Molly laughed again.

"Really," John exclaimed, comforted that she hadn't actually read his mind. "Why didn't you tell me? I asked you to let me know if you had any symptoms."

"Couldn't text you with my mobile all locked up, could I?" She waved the gadget between them.

Ah, Sherlock would have just rolled his eyes and called him an idiot. Funny how she could say practically the same things he did but it always came out nicer.

"What was I thinking," John laughed, "Of course you couldn't."

"I was going to see if there was someone in IT that could take a look."

The mention of Barts IT department made John pale slightly. He wondered how she could be so casual about the place before realizing that the whole Jim incident was another memory she had lost because it was so intimately tied to Sherlock. The man was right, all the worst parts of Molly's life really did trace back to him in one way or another. Definitely didn't want her going to IT and getting any flashbacks.

"Actually, I've got this friend who's pretty good with gadgets and codes. I'm sure he'd look at it and could have it unlocked in a jif," John offered.

"Thanks!" Molly replied brightly. "Now, you said you were leaving me a message?"

"Why don't we talk about it over lunch, don't want to waste your break here."

"Oh, uhm...okay." Molly grabbed her bag and awkwardly joined him as they left. Without thinking about it, John put his arm around her shoulders as they stepped out into the hallway. She squeaked and pulled back. John was startled as well, throwing both hands in the air.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He'd instantly recognized his mistake. It had been a long time since he saw this awkward Molly. Again the sadness of all the lost lunches they'd shared swept over him and he wondered if he'd ever be able to get that level of comfort back around her.

"Oh, no! Sorry, John. It's just, it's just...I didn't expect...I mean, it just seems weird. We don't hang out that often."

"It's fine, after your accident, I'm sure you're a bit jumpy."

"No, it isn't that." She continued walking and John followed, keeping his hands firmly tucked in his coat pockets. "There are just these odd sensations sometimes."

"Odd how?"

"Well, I was going to text you but it was silly, and then my phone was locked…" she took a deep breath, obviously trying to find her courage. "I feel bad when I smell certain things," she rushed, letting it all out in one breath. She then laughed sadly, "Oh, listen to me, it's so silly."

"Not at all. What smells make you feel bad?"

"Blood mostly. But lots of people don't like the sight of blood, it can't be all that odd to not like the smell of it either." She was nervously twining her fingers watching the ground as she walked.

"Has this ever happened before?"

"No, that's the weird bit. I don't remember having that problem in med school. I cut into bodies all the time, if the smell of blood is going to put me off, what can I do?" She looked to him with genuine concern clouding her features.

"You said mostly, are there other smells too?"

"Just now, when you put your arm around me. The smell of your coat."

John put his face into his coat sleeve and sniffed loudly.

"Smells like a crazy person, you were right to be afraid," he teased. Molly giggled. Her whole face relaxed. For a split second he saw the Molly he remembered. Smiling he continued, "All I smell is dust and cedar. Got this one out of our cedar lined wardrobe this morning. Could be worse, could smell like mothballs. But you're right, I probably should air things out a bit more before wearing them."

Molly leaned over to John's coat and inhaled experimentally. Cedar. A cold knot formed in her stomach and she had an overwhelming sense of dread. She stepped back from him and shook her head, willing the feeling to pass but it lingered. Why would the smell of cedar make her so uneasy? Had something bad happened to her in the woods at some point? Not that she could recall. This time it was stronger than with the blood alone. Thinking of the two together made her almost nauseous.

"Sorry John but that smell is just making me really uncomfortable. Can we maybe do lunch together some other time? I think I need to go have a lie down. Ta."

She started back to her office without even waiting for John's reply. He looked at her retreating form and wondered what that was all about and if he should mention it to Sherlock or not. Shaking his head he figured it would have to wait. Unlocking her mobile would be enough of a task for Sherlock for now, especially considering the terrible mood he would be in after his assignment today was complete. He'd gone to ask for a favor.

_-x-x-x-_

Drumming his fingers anxiously on the desk, Sherlock glared at his laptop screen waiting for the feeds to come up. He had expected his brother to sneer at him and give him a lecture about the frivolity of his request. Instead, Mycroft had actually agreed without any questions. All he had said was, "Of course, brother. Whatever you need." There was no lecture about the obvious sentimentality of Sherlock's actions and therefore all the cutting retorts that Sherlock had prepared had gone unsaid. Not fighting with Mycroft made Sherlock edgy. It was like Mycroft knew something that he didn't. He hated it when that happened. No matter how long he thought about it, he couldn't decipher what it meant, agreeing so readily. It had to mean something, it was Mycroft after all. Finally the four black-and-white video feeds blinked into existence on his computer and he was able to relax slightly, putting his brother's attitude aside for now.

This was going to be the hardest but most important part of his life now. Although Molly had forgotten him, the world hadn't and he still had enemies. If she was going to have a life free from him, he would have to try to keep any of that from coming to her. So he asked for Mycroft to maintain a level of security on Molly much the same as what was on Mrs. Hudson. Subtle but constant, secret but unwavering. Sherlock had also asked for the CCTV coverage now before him. The top two feeds were relatively boring, simply street views of unremarkable areas of London. People were coming and going but Sherlock considered them merely background noise at the moment. The lower left-hand camera was directed at the front door to a group of moderately priced flats on a nondescript residential street.

Sherlock's entire focus, however, was drawn to the lower right-hand image and a gray-scale Molly Hooper busying herself with afternoon tasks in the laboratory. He wanted to be able to keep his own eyes on what her day-to-day was like. It would make it easier for him to avoid crossing her path and he could be on the look out for potential danger. He didn't tell Mycroft or John that it would also allow him to satisfy his need to see her. He missed her already and maybe, hopefully, just seeing her safe and happy would be enough. Sherlock ached to know what she was working on and to hear her incessant humming. She always hummed while she worked, he never thought he'd actually miss that. How many times had he snapped at her to be quiet or chased her from the lab so he could work in silence? Not even realizing he reached out and gently touched the image on the screen. _Forgive me, my Molly._

_-x-x-x-_

"Any progress yet?" John asked, walking into the kitchen to find Sherlock staring at Molly's locked mobile. He'd been trying to guess the passcode for a week. He would deny that he was 'guessing' but as the device was still here instead of having been returned to Molly, John figured he wasn't trying deductive reasoning. Either that, or he enjoyed having it in his possession, much like The Woman's.

"No. Beginning to suspect she picked numbers at random. Although that isn't, wasn't, like her. Whatever the code is it must 'mean' something."

"I told her you were still working on it." Sherlock's head shot toward his friend. John brushed off his concern, "Well, not 'you' but that 'my friend' was still working on it. She's gotten a prepaid to use in the meantime, which you already know." John gestured now to the open laptop and the ever present CCTV feed. An inset screen showing Molly was visible at all times on the consulting detective's laptop. John was fairly certain that the screen was never out of Sherlock's peripheral vision. It was very likely the first thing he saw in the morning and the last image he saw at night, when he allowed himself to sleep anyway. John wondered if Mycroft had cameras in her flat. He hoped not, that was an outrageous invasion of her privacy, regardless of what Sherlock said.

"It only shows the exterior of the building and her windows. I can tell when she is home but not exactly what she does while there. I'm not stalking her, merely making sure she is safe."

John scowled. Damn that man for always reading his thoughts. "Anyway, she isn't in any rush to get this one back. The worst part though was how she said it. 'Not like I'm the kind of person trusted with state secrets or matters of life and death,' were her exact words." John shook his head sadly, "She has no idea how important she was."

"That is the whole point of this exercise, John. Now, unless you have something else on your mind…" Sherlock's attention was drifting.

"Actually, yes. Lestrade has been asking if you're ever going to take cases again. They've got a tricky one and he would like for us to take a look. It's been a while since the last one, when all of this began. Ready to see if this arrangement will really work?"

"What does that mean? Of course it will. Let's go." Sherlock stood, collecting both her phone and his from the table. Upon donning his signature coat and scarf, he hid hers in an interior pocket. Together with John, he bounded down the stairs as if nothing had changed. In less than an hour he would realize how perfectly wrong he had been about his plan.

The body had already been removed by the time they got to the crime scene. Samples had been taken. There was little for Sherlock to do but seethe and throw dirty looks at the forensic techs. Lestrade told Sherlock it was his own fault for not responding to the request earlier. If he still wanted to assist, the body and samples had been sent to Barts. He could go look at them there, just like always. Sherlock froze and John was sure he was about to have to restrain his friend from punching the DI.

"You know I can't work there anymore," Sherlock huffed.

"They're the best, and the closest. We can't just establish new protocols because you have a sensitivity. If that was the case my job would have been made easier a long time ago," Lestrade grumbled. "Now, are you on the case or not?"

"Not," Sherlock spat. Storming back the way he came, he fumed about the utter idiocy of it all. Although he needed a case, needed a distraction, it was too much of a risk to Molly. He was leaving her alone and that couldn't happen if he popped in at all hours like he used to. The Yard would get along without him. Hell, the world would get along without him. It had for the better part of the past three years and very well could again.

_-x-x-x-_

So began a long downward spiral for Sherlock. He didn't leave the Baker Street flat for anything. Regardless of temptations presented by Lestrade, John or even Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson and John alternated checking on him and that only served to irritate him. He didn't understand their concern. He was still dressing for the day in his suits, eating and sleeping as necessary, playing violin when the mood struck him, and tinkering with his microscope and experiments. He just refused to take any cases. If he was gradually spending more time watching the laptop feed or secluded in his own mind, no one commented.

After two weeks, he had grown bored with his experiments. No Molly meant no fresh specimens or cultures. He took to focusing solely on the video of her day, trying to decipher the outcomes of her experiments and tests remotely. And he still had the mystery of her mobile. John sensed it was now from a reluctance to give up the last bit of Molly than from an actual inability to determine the code. At the four week mark, his violin music became non-existent as had any pretense of getting dressed. He had apparently decided showering and suits were a waste of time and lounged in the same pyjamas and dressing gown for four consecutive days. John had finally had enough.

"C'mon. You're going outside this flat."

"Why should I?" Sherlock's voice creaked. He'd not spoken to either John or Mrs. Hudson in several days, not even to shout abuse at them.

"Because this isn't healthy. Because your plan isn't working. You're killing yourself with kindness."

John took hold of Sherlock's arm and yanked him up off the couch. Throwing a hooded sweatshirt and some trainers at him, John manhandled him out the door. It really wasn't that difficult for the army doctor, Sherlock had literally been wasting away in the past month. He also didn't put up much of a fight, resigning himself to be drug out the door and shoved into a waiting cab.

"Where are we going?"

"Where do you think, genius?" John snapped.

"NO! Let me out of this car immediately! It'll ruin everything," Sherlock shouted, ripping at the latches and nearly throwing himself into traffic. John grabbed on to him again, forcing him back into his seat and pinning him with his own death stare.

"Have you actually been paying attention to that laptop of yours, Sherlock? You're plan is not working. And I don't just mean that you are dying of a broken heart."

"You have to have a heart for that," the former detective muttered, staring at the floor, refusing to make eye contact.

"Don't start with that. Your actions over the past two months clearly prove you have a heart. Or you did, until you gave it to a girl who doesn't even know about it." John eased back into his own seat.

"And you think I can just show up and tell her all of this and it will be fixed? How romantic," he sneered. "Look at me. I was unpleasant to her before, now I'm a disaster."

"Contrary to what you think, this isn't about you. Something is still wrong with Molly and getting worse. Before I let you rot, I'm going to force you to fix it."

At this Sherlock actually did perk up. "What do you mean? I watch her all day, every day. I would have seen." He finally looked at his friend, familiar sparks of curiosity coming to life in his eyes. He was trying to deduce anything he could about Molly from John's whole body.

John smirked at him, "You have seen but not observed." He'd waited ages to be able to say that. Sherlock's glare could have drawn blood.

"Very funny," he replied dryly. But it was possible he had been so lost in his own turmoil to take note of what really was going on with Molly. Synapses fired and he struggled to to focus. Thoughts of Molly had consumed him, pushing all other information to the farthest reaches of his mind. The mental disarray was almost as bad as it had been after the drugs. That made sense, he had been addicted to Molly for better than a month. "What is wrong with her, John?"

"She won't say. But she has a lingering melancholy about her. She doesn't have any friends anymore because we're all avoiding her on your orders. Well, I haven't been because I still don't think it's right. At first, I thought she was lonely, tried to get her to come out with me and Mary but that didn't go anywhere. If I didn't know any better I'd say she has the same bad attitude you used to get without a case. Like she misses the excitement of working with you. But since she doesn't know that was part of her life, she doesn't know what it is that is missing."

Sherlock just sat back taking in all this new information about her. He really had been blind, only interested in making sure she was safe, forgetting to look to see if she was happy. "What else? Why do I need to go see her in person?"

"Something she said right after she woke up, the day I nicked her phone. She said that she gets a weird feeling from certain smells. I thought you might be able to figure out if that's important, but I don't think you can do that remotely."

"Have you got any plans if she recognizes me?"

"Dressed like you are, smelling like you do, I don't think anyone would recognize you, Sherlock. You were right before, you're a bloody sight," John chuckled.

* * *

**PS:** Ugh, the chapter was so long that this became the necessary stopping point. I'm afraid there wasn't much action but so much was done setting up for action next chapter. We are nearing the moment when all the threads come together. Only one or two chapters left. Hopefully you're on the edge of your seat waiting to see what will happen. Hopefully it will surprise you. Even if it doesn't, hopefully it's satisfying. Can you tell that hope is the key word here? I hope so.

Finally, I want to do some shout outs:

**Colorful Magic** – I hope this cleared up that issue. It's actually become a major plot point now so thanks for bringing it up!

**MorbidbyDefault** – Chapter Three was certainly one of the saddest things I've ever written. At one point I was going to leave it at this, but just couldn't bear to.

**Crimson and Chrome 42** – True! And that is a big part of what I did here in Chapter 4 – showing how he was trying to protect her from everything about himself. Even to the point of asking a favor from Mycroft.

**Ballykissangel **– I was initially going to end it at Chapter 3 because I wanted a truly angsty story. But I just can't bring myself to do so. It will have an ending, you'll have to tell me if it's good enough or not when we get there.

My thanks also to** Lucy**, **jane. emma** ** .jhan**, **MegHolmes**, **Rocking the Redhead**, **Little Minamino**,** jankmusic**, **crooney83**, and all those silent but lovely readers who have added this story to favorites and alerts. Love you all!

- _CG_


	5. would you please remind me?

**Trigger Warning:** For an allusion to **depression** and** suicidal thoughts.** Nothing bad happens to any of our characters, but there is a hint that something might if things don't change. As always, please feel free to contact me if you want or need to talk. I love you all.

**Author's Note:** I struggled a lot with this one and still have a lot of reservations about some of the choices I made. In the end, I figured it was best to just push through and post, so please let me know if it seems stilted. I have big plans for the finale and this lays the last bit of groundwork. Enjoy! - _CG_

* * *

_-x-x-x-Chapter Five - would you please remind me? -x-x-x-_

_Lucky sod_. Molly thought, looking down at the cadaver in front of her. It was a young man, not much older than herself, who just dropped dead yesterday on his ride to work. The police wanted to rule out foul play but Molly was fairly certain it would turn out to be an aneurysm. She was jealous of the man. People kept saying that it wasn't like her. Supposedly she had been a very happy girl until about two months ago. Until the accident. Why did people keep telling her that? It was frustrating. She couldn't remember the last time she felt genuinely happy actually.

'Little Miss Perfect' had always been on the outside looking in. Ostracized for getting perfect marks on her school work. Teased for talking more about books than boys. Molly didn't socialize easily, especially after they found out she wanted to work with dead bodies for a living. She was a freak who would never be good enough, never be normal enough. Only her father had ever believed in her. "If the devil's in the detail, you'll bring him to his knees" he used to say, "you've got the sight of angels, revealing the truth in everything you see." Oh how she wished that was true. She didn't uncover great truths or solve great mysteries. He would be so disappointed in her. Her life had turned into an endless stream of death and paperwork. Nothing exciting ever happened to her.

With practiced ease, she slid the bright steel scalpel into cold flesh. Slowly opening his chest from neck to navel letting the now familiar despair she felt, as the musky tang of blood wafted up to her, seep deeper into her bones. She should just quit the charade. If she didn't come in tomorrow no one would notice. Her 'patients' certainly wouldn't miss her. It was all such a waste of time. Molly sighed again. She knew every vein in the human body. Just the right amount of pressure from her skilled fingers in just the right places and none of this would matter to her ever again. She really did envy the dead.

While she mused further on the chances that she'd be missed by anyone other than Toby, Molly heard a tap on the glass of the observation window. She looked up and saw John Watson smiling at her and giving her a friendly wave. Molly tried to muster up some excitement at seeing him but her heart was hardened to even the kindly doctor. With her faux smile firmly affixed, she waved for him to come on in if he wanted. She wished he would stop trying to come by and cheer her up. He was wasting his time, she didn't want to pretend to be happy anymore. Molly didn't even notice the unkempt observer sulking at the edge of the window.

Pushing the door open, John joined Molly in the morgue and allowed Sherlock to slink in behind him. He hung back, not wanting to draw her attention but wanting to hear her voice and deduce whatever it was about her that was bothering John. He patently ignored the tension in his own body from being in close proximity to her again. Their roles were truly reversed if he was nervous to be in her presence.

"What brings you to my little _slice_ of heaven today?" Molly chirped. John winced a bit at her morbid humor. Sherlock only shook his head and smirked. That was one of her better puns.

"Just wanted to see how you were doing. Sure you don't want to join me and Mary for drinks after work?"

This was the final straw for Molly. She let her smile fall, closed her eyes, and addressed him with a tired voice.

"Stop worrying about me, John. And tell Mike to stop too. I'm a pathetic little morgue mouse but I don't want anyone's pity. I'm a waste of your time. Just, just go. Actually, why don't I go."

"Molly, wait. Don't talk like that, you aren't…" John started but it was too late. She'd already removed and discarded her gloves with an efficient snap of latex. But before she swept out, she pulled up short in front of Sherlock, taken aback by his presence. He was partially blocking the door, preventing what she had intended as a dramatic exit. She looked up at him and their eyes met. Sherlock held his breath as he waited for her reaction. His heart fluttered as hope came back to life in his chest. She might recognize him, his Molly might finally be back. He found that he wanted her to see, just as she had before, how absolutely terrified he was. Seconds passed as she stared and he waited.

"Sorry," Molly broke the spell. Her voice maintained the cold, flat tone she'd used on John. "Visitors aren't normally allowed here. I'm afraid you and Dr. Watson will have to leave now." She yanked the door open and waved her hand for him to move on into the hall. Sherlock complied mutely and John followed. Storming off in the direction of her office, the men were left dumbfounded in the hallway.

"See what I mean. She isn't herself. This isn't Molly Hooper."

"Hmmm. Seems we have been dismissed," Sherlock muttered walking away. John wasn't sure which friend he should follow. Letting out a dispirited breath he chose to go after Sherlock. Maybe he would be able to talk him into a shower now. He caught up with him in the lift and silently rode back the way they had come.

John was right, not that Sherlock would tell him that, not having been coerced into going in the first place. One look at Molly through the morgue windows was proof enough to him that she was not doing well. Her mouth was set in a tight grimace and her brow was wrinkled. It was galling that he had missed all of that in the surveillance video. That most certainly wasn't Molly. She looked tortured. But there was nothing he could do about it in his current state. He needed time to process what had just occurred.

Later, after lengthy meditation on the sofa, Sherlock could admit to himself that it had been pleasant hearing her voice again, even strained. Standing next to her he had been enveloped in her distinct blend of eucalyptus-mint body wash and lemon shampoo. A strong combination that could cut through the smells of the morgue even on a bad day. It evoked memories of clean air, light, warmth, and laughter. All things Molly. He wondered when the last time was that she had smiled. Or laughed. And what could he do to restore that brightness to her.

_-x-x-x-_

"It isn't boredom that's changed Molly, it's something much darker."

"What? How can you tell?"

It had been twenty-two hours since their visit to the morgue and Sherlock had performed an about face. He was clean shaven, well dressed and pacing back and forth in the sitting room of 221B gesturing wildly. As happy as he was to have Sherlock back to almost-normal, John still didn't understand what was going on with Molly.

"Self-loathing is something I've been very acquainted with. The voice in your head telling you that the world would be better off without you in it. It's a siren's song and Molly's listening to it."

"You think Molly's doing drugs?! That's just insane."

"No, even you would recognize the signs of addiction. Please keep up, no, this is something else. Something that could rapidly escalate with Molly's skills. We will have to do more than observe her at a distance. I need to be more proactive in her life. Remind her that she counts before she loses herself completely and does something drastic."

Sherlock didn't want to name aloud the demon that was plaguing Molly because he knew John would panic pushing her further away from them. This situation required a delicate touch. How could he get close enough to her though without compromising the initial plan of not dragging her back into his world of crime and chaos? His thought processes crystallized into an answer. Not the easiest solution, but certainly not as boring as moping about the flat. Yes, a brilliant endeavor that only he could pull off.

"Finally, we are rejecting your ridiculous plan to just abandon Molly Hooper. I said all along it was a bad idea," John interrupted brightly. "Good, glad that's settled."

"No, she still can't know anything about Sherlock Holmes. But this may allow me to work cases again without her getting involved. This could be a very workable arrangement."

"Slow down. How will you be able to work with her without her knowing who you are and what you do? Have you got some secret formula for invisibility I don't know about?"

Sherlock only scoffed at John's flippancy. Instead he settled himself at his computer and began filtering through a month's worth of abandoned messages on his website.

"Call Lestrade. See if he's got a case. I need something with which to test. Not too strenuous, nothing greater than a seven."

John rolled his eyes and began typing a message to the DI. "There was something in the paper yesterday about a missing person. Are you really going to take on a case while Molly's falling apart?" he asked.

"The missing person case is a two. I want something benign, not brain-numbing. And this will help Molly. Just wait and see." Sherlock smiled. Yes, this was exactly what she needed. What they both needed actually.

The case Sherlock finally settled on was a solid and safe four. A locked door burglary that had so far stumped the Yarders. If the evidence was as lacking as they claimed, it had the potential of becoming a five, but he doubted it. Sherlock made his standard deprecatory comments about the forensic technicians as he instructed that everything, including photos and reports, be sent to Barts lab.

Now he could start on the ingenious second stage of his new plan. Sherlock Holmes was too caustic and dangerous to Molly. No, that name, and the associated person, would continue to be lost to her. In order to work on cases in Molly's presence, thereby involving her in the parts she apparently missed, he would have to be someone other than himself. He was quite proficient at assuming identities when they suited him, though, so a new person would take his place in the lab with her.

It was as if Sherlock getting a chance to do everything over again the right way. Today, and every day that required a trip to Barts with Molly, he would be Samuel Hanes. Samuel would be a more mild mannered version of himself who actually cared about emotions and was careful with them. Perhaps a change in his normal attire would be a good idea as well.

_-x-x-x-_

"I still think I should go in with you. What if something goes wrong?"

"What could possibly go wrong? You've said it yourself, you don't even recognize me so it will be impossible for Molly to know who I am until I introduce myself."

"Right, that's the part that worries me. You tend to make terrible first impressions."

"True. But today I'm not the arsehole detective who can't keep his mouth shut. For the next few hours anyway, I'm Samuel. Charismatic, complimentary, but still clever. And he doesn't have a former army doctor turned blogger following him around. Besides,she knows you and will be suspicious why you've never mentioned me before."

"Yeah, sure. I get it. I'll make myself scarce. But if anything goes wrong with this ridiculously convoluted scheme of yours be sure to call me. I want to be the first to say I told you so."

John turned and walked away from the hospital front doors. He'd go to a little booksellers down the street and wait for the inevitable there. Perhaps find a book on how to cope when your best friend's being a complete tosser. The last month had been a waste of time. Molly had been in love with him, warts and all, before. Why would she be any different now? Pretending to be someone else simply couldn't be the answer.

Walking confidently through the basement halls, Sherlock prepared himself for his big performance. True, the outfit would take some getting used to. He had borrowed one of John's less offensive navy jumpers and was wearing it over a plain white button-down with a pair of khaki colored trousers. He felt he looked more like a school teacher than a consultant detective. But really, if he was the only one in the world, who was anyone else to decide what the dress code was. This would do.

Besides, this was exactly what someone named Samuel who liked cats, drank tea with too much milk, read novels and watched sunsets would wear. This was exactly the kind of person Molly would like. He smiled at how clever this all was and strode cheerfully toward the pathology lab. She would be there now, he'd double checked her schedule and had seen her close an autopsy on the laptop feed before heading out the door. Yes, there she was at her station, writing up notes.

Molly turned at the sound of someone nervously clearing their throat from the doorway.

"This area is restricted. The waiting area for families is down the hall to your left." Molly told the visitor abruptly, waving her hand to dismiss him. She had no inclination to deal with lost or nosy people today.

"Umm, actually. I have permission to be here." Sherlock flashed Lestrade's credentials. "I am a consultant with NSY. I believe they sent some case materials here for me."

"Oh. Sorry to be rude but I really haven't the time today to deal with people. Not living ones anyway, they talk too much," Molly quipped. "Yes, your box is here. I'll just clear out and let you work Mr….," she trailed off.

"Samuel Hanes. I hope I'm not intruding too much."

"Not at all. I'm always glad to help the police," she answered. A polite, but not genuine, smile stretched across her face as she gathered up her reports, passing him on her way to the door. Very briefly she caught a trace of something, a scent, from the man that made her wary.

Molly took a good look at him and was startled. He was dressed completely unlike any of the usual police who came by the morgue but that wasn't what surprised her. His face, and his eyes. They were stunning and fixed her in place with a gaze that was almost loving. His face was gentle and he was smiling slightly, as if he'd honestly enjoyed her remarks. It made her quite uncomfortable. She wasn't the kind of girl to get noticed at a club, let alone in her lab coat without make-up. He looked innocent enough, and he worked with the police, but something seemed false about his behaviour.

"I'm Dr. Hooper. I'll be down the hall if you need anything," Molly finished, pushing on out the door.

He tried to stop her, tried to reach for her but found he couldn't move. For a moment she had started to actually observe him before getting skittish and running away. That wasn't supposed to happen. He was going to have to seek her out, draw her back into the laboratory. Rifling through the case materials he began setting up. He would feign difficulty with one of the machines and ask her to come help. That would do it. Sherlock was determined to get her interested in working with him.

Once everything was laid out strategically he went to her office door and knocked softly. No more barging through doorways making demands.

"Dr. Hooper? I hate to bother you again, but I could use some assistance."

"I'm sorry, I should have made sure you had everything you needed before I left." She stood walking around her desk to face him. "What do you need?"

His heart stopped for a beat at hearing those words drop from her lips again. Blinking rapidly, he pushed the feeling away. Now was not the time.

"I seem to be having some difficulty with the magnification on the microscope. I cannot get the lenses to focus properly."

"It wouldn't be the one on the far end of the bench would it?" Molly spoke over her shoulder leading him back to the lab. "Someone has buggered up the dials fiddling with it."

Sherlock smirked knowing full well he and Molly were the only ones who could use the microscope properly because of his 'modifications' to it over the years.

"Thank you for your help, Dr. Hooper. I really appreciate it," he said as she sat and adjusted the microscope for him.

"It's nothing. Here you go." Molly rose to let him sit and look through the eyepiece. "Will that work?"

"Yes. It's perfect. I wouldn't mind having your expert opinion on this. If you're willing."

"Oh, no. I'm no expert on asphalt. I'm just a pathologist."

"That's amazing," he responded, genuinely impressed.

Molly might not remember Sherlock Holmes, but she obviously still remembered things she had learned while working cases with him. In just the short time it had taken to adjust the lenses, she had identified the sample. If the Yard techs had that skill, he wouldn't have near as many cases. Lucky for him most people were idiots, not nearly as observant as Molly.

"How did you know it was road grit? It's the key to this whole case." That might have been a bit of a stretch, but he was doing his best to restore her confidence. A little lie to that end wouldn't hurt.

"Honestly, I have no idea," she sighed. While it was nice to be appreciated and noticed, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong about Samuel. Standing so near to him she was starting to get that odd sick sensation. That faint smell from before had grown. But this wasn't cedar, it was something more like citrus, almost but not quite like lemons. She better leave before it grew worse like she knew it would. Like the smell of blood did after completing a full day of autopsies, haunting her constantly.

"Would you like to stay and help with the rest of the investigation," Samuel interrupted her thoughts. "I meant what I said earlier, it would be very helpful to have a trained pair of eyes on the rest of the evidence."

"No, I should really get back to my own work. And my shift will be over soon. Good luck, Mr. Hanes."

Again, Sherlock was left alone in the lab watching Molly exit in a rush. He really couldn't put a finger on what it was about Samuel that seemed to disturb her. Collecting up the materials for the case, he'd solved it while staging the room for her, Sherlock left deep in thought about the growing puzzle of the pathologist's behaviour.

_-x-x-x-_

Late that night, Molly lay in bed staring at the ceiling unable to sleep. She couldn't understand why she was so upset by someone as seemingly nice as Samuel. He surely wasn't as bad as her subconscious was making him out to be. He was so handsome and had beautiful eyes. It seemed like he saw something in her she hadn't seen in herself. Maybe that was the problem. She wasn't special.

It also didn't bode well that that almost citrus smell lingered about him and made her uneasy. She would have to look up what it could be, probably a soap, or perhaps his shampoo. He did have gorgeous dark curls. If she could identify it that would make it easier to avoid like the cedar of John's jacket. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding the scent of blood. Each whiff made the muscles tighten in her stomach and an icy chill flow through her veins, a phantom fear gripping her. There was nothing for it, she was a hopeless case. Maybe she would be lucky and Samuel wouldn't be back in her lab.

In another silent London flat, Sherlock was lost in his own contemplation of the afternoon with Molly. There must be something he was missing, some reason she would be avoiding him. True, it wasn't really him, it was Samuel. But that personality had been customized for her, it should be exactly the kind of man she would want to spend time with. What was he still doing to drive her away?

He glanced over at the laptop screen. Molly's lights had been off for over two hours and he wondered if she was asleep or if she was also turning everything over in her mind. Was she perhaps thinking about Samuel, about him? It would be nice if she was. That thought alone scared him. He had often thought of her and had known she was doing the same while he had been gone. As he'd told John, he knew Molly had been waiting for him while protecting his secret and caring for his friends in his absence. Over the last month he had felt adrift knowing that connection was severed.

Reaching for his mobile, Sherlock saw Molly's still sitting silent beside his own. Another mystery he couldn't solve. It was clearly something to do with their relationship if she had forgotten it. Silly, sentimental. He thought of another locked phone. _We all do silly things._ Chemical defect, such a dangerous but powerful part of the human experience. It was obstructing his ability to focus on what was still hurting Molly. It was time to confess he needed help, as much as he loathed to ask for it. Sherlock groaned. There was bound to be gloating.

* * *

So there it is. As I said at the beginning, it isn't exactly what I had in mind, but I lost the thread somewhere in the middle. Things are now primed and ready for the conclusion though. And I'll leave it at that.

Finally, for shout-outs (although I sent some private message responses, I thought everyone might benefit from my answers):

**Ballykissangel** - I hope so too. Well, I have an idea of what will happen, I just hope everyone likes it.

**MorbidbyDefault** - You got another smell this chapter, although I didn't go into it much. I will say that the code isn't a date, but it will reflect something about their relationship that Molly remembered but Sherlock didn't for...reasons. Thanks for the love, it makes me blush.

**Rocking the Redhead** - The smells are critical but all will be revealed in the conclusion. I have to admit, I've really enjoyed noble Sherlock.

**jankmusic** - Was there enough surprise? If not, the big finale will be.

**Crimson and Chrome 42** - Thanks for waiting. I promise not to make the wait for Chap. 6 as long.

**Dizzybunny** - I hadn't thought about the Mycroft angle, but I considered it and yes, he has now got a role in the finale. Thanks for that.

**Aquitaine85** - So glad you like it and that everyone seems in character. It is a challenge to do character development without breaking too much. And yes, John's line had me giggling but also hoping it wasn't cheesy.

Thanks to everyone for the support, the follows and the favorites. Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion! Much love, _CG_


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